


Heaven Help Me

by AJfanfic



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aftercare, Angst, Crowley Needs to Talk About His Feelings, Crowley tried some things in the 80s, Dancing, Dominant Aziraphale (Good Omens), Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Genderqueer Character, Genderqueer Crowley (Good Omens), God's Love, Harassment, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Making Out, No Sex, Nonbinary Character, POC Crowley, Religion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Self-Esteem Issues, Trans Crowley (Good Omens), West Asian Crowley, in my mind at least, or something like it, possessive Aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 17:49:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19339510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJfanfic/pseuds/AJfanfic
Summary: "Were you worried about me?”“I shouldn’t be, but...I don’t like the risks you take, sometimes.”Crowley smiled slowly, “You were. You.”Crowley gets harassed while high out of his mind, and Aziraphale comes to his rescue. They've got very different ideas of what comes next, but Aziraphale always gets his way.





	Heaven Help Me

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be smut, set to a Lizzo soundtrack. I wrote the ending listening to Sufjan Stevens and Girl In Red so instead, we got this emotional dom/sub aftercare focused thing.

Aziraphale was sitting at the bar. Crowley knew he was there. They always knew where the other was, one of the perks of being the only etherial and occult beings on Earth. Crowley had apparently decided to pretend he didn’t.

He was doing something he’d call dancing. Aziraphale and pretty much everyone else would disagree, though for entirely different reasons. Aziraphale was of the mind that anything invented after the death of the gavotte didn’t deserve to be called dancing. He allowed a few exceptions, but this sort of club-style gyration was not one of them. Those who did consider that genre, broadly, to be dance, would still hesitate to extend the word to Crowley. Crowley moved with a lot of confidence, conviction, and hips, but little musicality or grace. He’d argue it was because he was a demon. He didn’t do anything with  _ grace.  _ Those others would say it was because he was a bad dancer. He didn’t seem to care.

Crowley, Aziraphale, and those judgemental others agreed on one point, the latter two almost in spite of themselves. Whatever one might call it, Crowley made it incredibly attractive. It was magnetic and delightfully tempting when by all rights it should have been awkward. He moved fluidly in ways he shouldn’t have been able to with a human spine and his waist cinched as tightly as it was. The half corset highlighted his hips and flat chest in perfectly contradictory ways. Aziraphale has been watching Crowley since he’d had his first drink. He was starting in on his third, a pink squirrel. He’d needed something cool and sweet.

If you were to ask, Aziraphale was keeping his eye out for wiles. To thwart. Dark club, late at night, doing  _ that _ … it would be the perfect time for the demon to try something shifty, tempt someone to lust. The drinks were to blend in. Crowley had clearly not made the same effort to remain inconspicuous, his sunglasses abandoned on a table much earlier in the evening. He hadn’t made eye contact once. Aziraphale tugged at his turtleneck. He’d long shed his suitcoat in the heat of the club. It was, not exactly frustrating, but something along those lines. Angels didn’t get frustrated. Especially not by demons giving them the silent treatment. Aziraphale wracked his brain for something that explained his behavior. Had he said something?

There was a curl stuck to Crowley’s forehead. He ran his hands through his hair, pushing the dark waves off his face. His eyes were closed. Aziraphale finished his drink.

Someone else had clearly been watching him, too. A man, of a height with the demon but looking much closer to popular depictions of the devil with pale skin and slicked back dark hair, than Crowley, with his warm brown skin and wavy hair, had ever been. The man made his way across the dance floor to him. He grabbed Crowley by the hip, spinning him towards him. Crowley responded sluggishly, blinking up at him with blown pupils. He tried to step back but the man followed, hands still on him. Aziraphale was on his feet and moving towards them before he registered getting up.

“Excuse me.” He knew he didn’t cut the most imposing figure. Aziraphale made up for it with the steel of his tone. “I think my friend here would like you to leave.”

“I think your friend here can tell me that himself.”

Crowley looked at him like he was surprised he’d done something. Or like he was surprised he was there at all. Aziraphale grabbed the man’s wrist. He was, perhaps, not as careful as he could have been. The man winced, a new weariness dancing in his eyes. “We both know my friend cannot. Don’t make me ask again.”

The man weighed his options. The second Aziraphale let go of him, he bolted for the exit.

Crowley’s face twisted with confusion. “‘Sirafel? What’re you doin’ here?”

“Keeping you out of trouble, my dear.” Aziraphale took his hand rather more gently and pulled him towards the quieter back of the club.

Crowley swayed on his feet. He draped himself around Aziraphale’s neck like a rather large boa. “Thank you, angel. For resc’ing me.”

“Are you high?” Aziraphale’s hands moved of their own accord to the demon’s waist, to steady him.

“Only a little.” Crowley grinned crookedly. “A lot, a little.”

“Sober up.”

He pouted.

“Do it.” Aziraphale was fairly sure if Crowley had been human, he’d have been long dead.

“Fine.” Crowley grimaced as he purged the cocktail of substances from his body, pupils shrinking back to their usual slits. “Yikes. I, er.” He unwound himself from the angel and took a half step back. “Sorry about that.”

“You were so out of your head you didn’t realize I’d spent the past hour sitting not twenty feet from you.” Aziraphale was going for stern. He got a mix of concerned and relieved. “You could get into real trouble like that Crowley, looking like you do.”

“Were you,” Crowley started slowly. His rather-more-forked-that-it-ought-to-be tongue darted out to wet his lips. “Were you worried about me?”

“I shouldn’t be, but...I don’t like the risks you take, sometimes.”

Crowley smiled slowly, “You were. You.”

Aziraphale was spared having to respond when Crowley kissed him. It was hard and messy and he could feel Crowley’s lipstick smearing against his face. Aziraphale took a moment to mourn the fact that the deep crimson was absolutely not his color before kissing back with gusto. Crowley nipped at his lower lip, drawing a drop of golden blood with sharper-than-human teeth. He hissed as it burned against his skin, pulling back just enough to breathe. His chest pressed against the angel’s with every heaving breath. Crowley felt a touch lightheaded, giddy from the kiss, and the corset, and the fact that Aziraphale had kissed him back.

“This a new way to not say thank you?” Aziraphale sounded far too put together, so Crowley kissed him again. He prodded at the little cut with his tongue, relishing in the mutual sting of it. Aziraphale gasped against him and he deepened the kiss. His fingers knotted into his hair. Aziraphale spun them around, pressing Crowley’s back to the wall.

He dropped his head back with a soft thump. “If you want. Call it whatever you want, angel, just kiss me again.”

“Heaven help me.”

“I think,” Crowly panted, “You’re doing just fine on your own.”

Aziraphale’s hands smoothed over the silk of his corset to cup his ass through the skin-tight leather pants Crowley must have miracled himself into. He trailed his lips along the exposed column of his throat, gentle kisses soothing after bruising nips. He brushed words across his skin. “Beautiful, precious.” There was at least one “my foolish serpent” in there as well, but Crowley was willing to ignore the slight in favor of what came before it. He wished he’d been a little more focused when Aziraphale had chased that guy off. The angel’s new possessive side was unexpectedly hot.

"Why do you do this to yourself?" He felt more than heard the words Aziraphale spoke against his skin.

"What does it matter,” Crowley ground their hips together. “I'm damned anyway, no one cares. Angel, please touch me.”

"Arrogant creature.” Aziraphale pushed him back. “Do you think you know Her plan?"

"No!” That was not what he’d been expecting. Maybe some more humiliation. Maybe he’d get shoved around a bit more. Not theology. Aziraphale managed to be as gentle and undeniable in this as in everything. “Of course not, it's-"

"Ineffable, yes. She created you, you gorgeous thing, and She loves all Her creations.” Crowley felt tears prick his eyes. It was the denial, the rough treatment. He wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s neck, leaning into him.

"Not me. Fucked that all up, got torn from her love," he mumbled. 

"No, only from Her Host.” Aziraphale pressed a kiss to the snake curled by his ear. “She loves you, Anthony, She cares.” He could feel Crowley shaking against him and he ran soothing hands along his back. “You're a part of Her and She loves you."

"Angel, please." Crowley’s voice broke, “Please.”

"She loves you.” His lips found every place he had marked before and each bit of skin between then, each kiss trailed by those words. “She loves you, She loves you.” Aziraphale brushed his thumbs across Crowley’s sharper-than-he-remembered cheekbones and Crowley realized he was crying. “I want you to say it.”

“I can’t.” Demons were liars by nature. Lies rolled from their lips as easily as blessings from an angel’s tongue, as sweet as cherry wine. A well-crafted lie was to be drawn out and wrung dry until you couldn’t take it anymore. This was a lie that Crowley couldn’t move himself to tell.

Aziraphale pressed their foreheads together and Crowley had never felt more cherished or more flayed open than he did at that moment. Not in all his time in heaven or in hell. "Do it for me, darling?”

“She loves me.”

"And I love  _ all _ of Her. You want to thank me?"

"Yes," Crowley sobbed. Aziraphale wrapped a curtain of silence around them and pulled him into his arms. Crowley’s back bent an unnatural distance to rest his head on the angel’s shoulder. They stood there for a long time, the bass of music they couldn’t hear thrumming through the floorboards against their feet. Crowley’s tears trailed off and he quieted, breath still uneven and hands still clinging, but less desperately.

Aziraphale spoke, barely giving air to the words. "Then try, try to love yourself in Her, just a little bit. Can you do that for me?"

"I can try." He was shaking still, like aftershocks following an earthquake.

"That's all I ask, my handsome boy...Would you like to come back to the bookshop?"

"Can I have some cocoa?" Crowley looked up, head still resting on his shoulder.

"Of course.”

Crowley nodded.

“Did you take the Bently?”

Crowley shook his head.

“I’m going to miracle us there, alright?” A little noise to the affirmative. Aziraphale closed his eyes and opened them on the back room of his shop. The fire crackled. Crowley stumbled in those impossible shoes of his at the change in flooring. “Do you want to put on something more comfortable?”

Crowley nodded but didn’t move to miracle himself into something else. Aziraphale smiled against his hair. “Why don’t we start by taking off these, and I’ll find you something warm to wear, okay?”  
“Okay.” Aziraphale’s hands were careful as he undid the laces on Crowley’s corset and set it aside. Crowley breathed deeply and shakily, sagging against him. “There we go. Step out of those shoes for me?”

 

Aziraphale grabbed his favorite sweater, a worn, cream-colored thing that was oversized on him and sure to swallow Crowley, from the back of a chair as he lead him to the bathroom. He pulled out the makeup remover Crowley had left there one night and wet the corner of a towel with it. Crowley took it and to his surprise, wiped carefully at his face. The towel came away stained red.

Crowley smiled. “You don’t look half bad in lipstick."

“I don’t look nearly as lovely as you do, I’m sure.” Aziraphale smiled back. “And red really isn’t my color. But thank you.”

They finished washing away the traces of makeup and tears. Aziraphale moved to leave, but a hand on his elbow stopped him.

“Could you….” Crowley held up his hands. They were still shaking. “I can’t seem to make them stop.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale undid his buttons and helped Crowley slide out of his binder. He didn’t ask how long he’d been wearing it with the corset. Crowley seemed glad he didn’t.

He’d been right about the sweater. It fell like a dress to Crowley’s knees. He burrowed into it and the pile of blankets on the couch, cocoa clutched covetously in his hands, and Aziraphale felt warm in a way that had nothing to do with the fire.

There were words on the tip of his tongue. Benediction was for an angel what lies were for a demon. Sanctification. Words of love and union, of the divine and the earthly. The words  _ I love you _ tasted like honey on Aziraphale’s lips. He savored them and swallowed them back. Crowley curled against him as he drifted to sleep and Aziraphale ran his fingers through the dark curls spilled across his thigh. They’d talk in the morning. Maybe he’d say it then.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this made sense and had a somewhat consistent tone!  
> I know I promised more in my Crowley has Chronic Pain verse, but this demanded to be finished first. I'll have that, and a sequel to my Ace!Crowley piece up before the end of the week :)
> 
> Follow me on tumblr at [Armageddon, Armageddoff](https://not-a-fucking-pogo-stick.tumblr.com/) and talk about Good Omens with me!


End file.
